Battering Robin Syndrome
He has split his beak on my view.
He has left his selfprint, almost art.
My window is torturing him.
My hubcaps incense him.
The robin wants my spring yard
to himself. Each reflection’s
a rival and must be fought full force.
Each reflection is harder than his skull.
He slides down, hobbles, tries again.
What business do I have holding mirrors
up to nature? It revolts. It suicides.
My love of flat, clear and shining
surfaces, flatter, clearer, shinier than lakes,
than anything in nature, is unnatural,
antinatural. And if nature held mirrors to me,
showed me someone I thought would steal
my truelove, or showed me how I’m doing,
what would I do, would I learn,
or beat my head against her skull,
or try to smash myself against the news?